Of Gods and Heroes
by Lourdes23
Summary: Pt 2 of 'The Second Life...' Over two years have passed and Wren and Ben face their annihilation yet again. To save what they hold most dear they must abandon what they are and accept aid from an unlikely source. Yet will it be enough? Or will the Heroic couple find that there are things more frightening than the shadows, and more powerful than the old gods? BenXPrincess
1. Fighting Shadows

Of Gods and Heroes Chapter 1: Fighting Shadows

Upon completion of a successful and satisfactory inspection of the men, General Finn was grateful to at last be able to turn his attention towards that which had truly interested him – the condition of the fort and the repairs which had been conducted upon the ancient structure. The removal of the old debris, and installation of a proper barracks structure where the old camp shop had been gave the fort a more uniform appearance. Collapsed portions of the wall walks had been repaired with wooden slats, iron bars inserted into the holes marring the outer walls to prevent intruder access to the bailey, and new gates made of wood from the local timber sealed the front and rear entrances. All in all the appearance was that of a more secure facility, yet Benjamin Finn knew that appearances were not always what they seemed.

"Does the work meet your approval, General?" The officer following at his heals asked in earnest.

"Well, she's prettier than when I served here," Ben mulled with a slight frown that drew creases through the shadows of unlit Will markings, "but I can't say much more than that." Jerking his chin towards the black bars before him he continued. "This is a swamp, Captain. Those'll be rusted out in a matter of months if you don't constantly oil them. An' no one here will have time for that. Do your men a favor; rebuild the walls proper. And the gates. You get one of those big blighters in here knocking on your door you're going to find yourselves with a lifetime supply of toothpicks and a whole lot of graves to dig. Get yourselves oak gates, and while you're at it add some steel supports." Turning to peer down at the man who had once held a couple of inches over him – the very idea of looking down at most _any_ man still a novelty to him – Ben pressed on. "How's the mortar?"

"Cleaned, loaded and ready for your inspection, sir." The captain reported, following closely as Ben climbed the stairs to take up a familiar position behind the massive weapon. "General, sir, Lieutenant Maxwell will be happy to-"

"An' just how am I supposed to check its aim if someone else fires it?" With a rueful shake of his head the general took only a moment to line up his sights before firing the mechanism, watching as fragments of wood and fabric took flight with the destruction of the dummy.

"Not bad," he admitted with a sooty grin, waving off the handkerchief that was offered to him when he stood. "She's always pulled a bit to the right, but I'm sure you found that out already."

"Yes sir." The captain confirmed.

"Alright then," absently scraping at his jaw with a bare hand and dusting his palms off onto his pants Ben strode down the stairs towards the main gate, "I've seen enough here. Make those changes, Captain. I expect a report in two weeks telling me the fort's ready for a follow up."

"As you say, sir." The captain saluted and hesitated only a moment before taking up the hand Ben offered with a familiarity most soldiers would not expect from the ranking officer of the kingdom's militant forces.

"Take care of Mourningwood, Turner," Ben said gravely, "it's a hard station, make no mistake. I'll send a relief detail in one month to take over." With that Ben and his accompanying officer, Major Morris of the Swift Brigade, departed from his former post. Having at last reached a safe distance Morris matched stride with his general and hummed in speculation. "Ya really think he's got what it takes?"

"He held the castle before you arrived during the balverine raids, didn't he?" Ben returned. "I think a little time in the fort's exactly what he needs. Get him into the grit of things an' all that. Keep an eye on him for me, will you? Make sure he doesn't end up like Simmons?"

"Babysitting." Morris screwed up his face him disgust.

"Comes with the territory, _Major_," Ben drawled with only the barest hint of irritation. After all the last time the general had taken part in any sort of armed combat had been in Shadelight with Wren. Being Albion's General didn't exactly allow time for mucking about with the troops, and while Ben had understood that when agreeing to take up the position, that understanding did little to stave off the ever present itch within his trigger finger. In Ben's opinion Morris should be counting himself lucky that his station permitted him to still be out in the field.

"Yes sir." The major's tone lost any hint of reproach at that and Ben sighed, once again reminded that if he wanted to engage in friendly bickering he'd have leave his rank at the door.

"Alright, fun as this was, think I'll call it a night. Care for a lift somewhere?" At Ben's question and extended hand Morris appeared almost aghast.

"What? Of course not! Why'd you think-"

"Easy, Morris," Ben coaxed, brandishing his palms to the man in appeasement, "it's just an offer."

With the assault upon his dignity thwarted, the major pulled his tact back in place. "Thanks, but no. Wouldn't be right to ask you to cart me about like a common coach. I can manage the trip to base alone."

"Alright," the word was heaved with a tremendous sigh, "in that case safe travels, mate."

"Safe travels, Ben," Morris relaxed a little and offered a smile as hot blue light surrounded Ben and pulled the Hero General from the swamp with otherworldly power.

XXXX

The castle windows shone down through the dark like patchwork rainbows when he materialized, and the one-time itinerant adventurer experienced the pull of that strange feeling that was _home_; keenly aware that it was not the familiar grounds or structure that offered the feeling which only grew as he climbed the stairs to the wing where the royal family resided. Opening the first door on his left silently, Ben entered the room that had until last year been a private study for the queen; light from a small lamp glowed softly in the far corner of what was now a comfortable nursery, for even at this early age Lark had seemingly inherited her mother and grandfather's fear of dark places.

Bending low over the pale purple coverlet Ben lightly kissed the unruly blonde locks that haloed a perfect cherub face; an unconscious smile claiming his features as it always did when he laid eyes upon the toddling girl. Reaching into his satchel, the doting father retrieved a toy pistol and placed it upon her bedside table, his grin growing devilish as he thought of the reaction it would illicit from the little girl's mother in the morning. With a final fond gaze at his daughter, the usually unsubtle man exited the room upon tip-toe through the door which lead directly into the family's main suite, finding Wren stretched out upon her favorite chaise with a very familiar sheaf of papers resting in her lap.

"Hiya, pal." He murmured, stooping to kiss his wife atop her head as he removed his officer's jacket and peered over her shoulder to confirm his suspicions. "I seem to remember tellin' you it wasn't ready."

"We both know you've been done for weeks," she said, her blue eyes hard as she peered up at him. "I don't like it."

"Well it's not exactly the story of 'Mindy the Prancing Pony' now, is it?" He pointed out, raising their daughter's favorite bedtime story for comparison.

"You all but excused my horrible treatment of you, Ben." Wren complained, irritably tapping the papers with the back of her fingers, "You took all of the blame and excused my actions as justified when it's the furthest thing from the truth."

"Your truth, maybe," Ben groused.

"There's a difference?"

"I would say so," he replied. "Now look, that's my memoir you've got there, isn't it? You say you saw things in a different light? Fine. Pen an account of your own." Wren's frowned deepened yet she did not respond as she gazed thoughtfully at the pages before her for a time.

"I just don't want people viewing you the way they did Eugene," she admitted at last. It was not as though Wren felt badly for the reputation earned by the man she had once believed to be her father. On the contrary, Albion's queen had disliked the man nearly as much as her kingdom; an esteem she clearly hoped to spare the man she had given her heart to. For this fear alone, Ben relented.

"Look, I can't change how I feel about what I did back then anymore than I can change what happened." He replied, bending low to nuzzle her hair. "But what if I put together a nice epilogue showing how I've atoned and am now a model husband and father?"

"Well," Wren murmured, smiling coyly as she tipped her head to allow him better access to her neck, "that might work. But it needs to be fairly spectacular."

"My dear, even when I'm fouling things up, I am _always_ spectacular!"

At this the Hero Queen rumbled a soft laugh that informed her husband all was forgiven, twisting from her seat to twine her arms around his neck. "Shut up, Ben." She murmured against his lips and with that Ben took great delight in ending further conversation by capturing her mouth in a kiss that stopped her breath completely while hauling her up to her feet with minimal effort.

It was still intoxicating to him that this woman he so cherished held him just as dear, and desired him just as intensely. At times it felt to him as though they were standing before Walter's statue as they had years ago, when Ben had been but a captain marveling at the fact that such a remarkable woman desired him as much as he yearned for her. Yet where once there had been nervous fingers and hesitant testing, now there was intimate familiarity and confidence that only heightened the experience.

In only a matter of moments Wren's fingers had unfastened every button and catch required to free him from his uniform; Ben having the even more enviable task of simply untying the cord of her dressing robe and allowing the garment to slip from her shoulders to the chaise. And though Ben won their race it was Wren who claimed the first small victory; her hands plunging beneath his shirt to scratch at his chest and snag at the blonde curls which covered the burning skin beneath. With a growl Ben stripped himself free of the confines of his uniform, returning to his wife's ravenous kiss as she pulled him down to the bed.

He had learned years ago that while some women had disliked the scrape of his unshaven chin against sensitive flesh, Wren found it a thrilling sensation, and so Ben held little back when he feasted upon her throat, allowing the scratching stubble to leave a path of its own down the column of her neck to her collarbone as she pulled her head back to afford him unimpeded access, her fingers already reaching and pulling at the length of his torso so that he might move a little higher and bring his own need within her reach.

They were all but lost to the passion they shared when a thin wail emanated from the beyond the door to the nursery, and as one the pair broke off and groaned with resignation, Ben's head dropping to rest within the mass of brown locks beneath his face as he reluctantly fought to quell the desire he had easily built in just moments.

"Her timing's improving at least," he sighed, the remorseful smiles they both wore vanishing when the pitch of the cries changed to something neither had ever heard from the little one before. This was not the cry that resulted from a lamp that had burned dry, or the lingering fear of a nightmare that had ended. Alarm painted the features of both parents and as one they bolted out of bed, catching up dressing robes to toss over their shoulders as they sped into their daughter's room.

"Lark, sweetheart, what is it?" Ben called out over Wren's queries, pushing open the door only to be met by a cold night breeze and moonlight. "Lark?!" At his back Wren pushed into the room, hurrying to where the bed was almost hidden in the nighttime blackness.

Tearful screams trilled from the shadows beside the opened window, and for the briefest of instances Ben could not understand what was happening; not until the shadow moved, blocking out the moonlight and taking the terrified cries with it.

With a guttural roar Ben lunged for the shadow, understanding at last that whatever had entered the room before them now held his daughter, but for all his speed the shadowed figure was faster, and moonlight flooded the room once more as Ben crashed headfirst into the casement beneath the window. Bare feet pounded upon his back for a moment and above him Wren was leaning out the window, shrieking her daughter's name into the night.

Rolling free of his wife's legs, Ben threw himself through the door into the corridor, thundering down flights of stairs and passed astonished staff and guards as he shouted his daughter's name over and over, racing for the gardens while knowing in the pit of his stomach it would be too late.

_Please, sweetheart, please! Please, no! _

The simple yet all consuming litany repeated over and over in his mind until at last he burst forth into the cold night air straining to hear the cries of his daughter to no avail; ignorant to the guards at his back and the torches they carried. Wren's voice was high above him and he tore his eyes from the garden only long enough to gaze up at the pale arm she thrust through the window, pointing with near unintelligible shouts of alarm to one of the high walls that circled the gardens. Men in uniform with weapons drawn were racing in the direction the terror-stricken queen indicated; fanning out along the walls as they called out to one another. When at last they confirmed that no trace of the intruder could be found commands were shouted by the new captain of the guard to begin searching the exterior grounds, yet Ben could comprehend no more, for the buzzing of panic within his mind had turned into an all encompassing roar; a roar that turned the world around him into a blinding orange maelstrom of light and noise.

His daughter, his precious Lark, was gone.

XXXX

**I'm back! As promised the return of some old favorites in a new story! (Oh no! I'm tormenting poor Wren and Ben again!) **

**I know that Fable 3 isn't everyone's favorite, but I for one love to write about it – the game itself leaves so much to the imagination for what could happen during and after the fact. This annoys a lot of players and rightfully so. But from a writer's standpoint it's a dream! I find I can play with the plotline quite a bit and still not mangle it! (And, let's be honest, Ben Finn is freaking HOT!) Also, after reading the reviews I received last time I've come to the conclusion that some of my readers might appreciate an idea I've been tossing around. What is that idea? You'll just have to wait… ;o) **


	2. Without A Choice

Of Gods and Heroes Chapter 2: Without A Choice

When at last Ben regained his senses he was unable to discern how long he had been lost to the tangible world; once more aware of men brandishing torches while rushing about the gardens, and of the blue glow that seemed to color anything not painted orange by firelight. Bewildered, he lifted his hands before his face, noting inattentively the striking appearance of the Will markings that burned brightly beneath his bare skin. There seemed to be more whorls present than ever before; unsurprising considering he felt as though he had just summoned flames, despite the fact that no telltale scorch marks touched his surroundings, and his hands were naked of the appropriate leather gauntlet.

Beyond the sight of his own glowing fingers a familiar figure at last caught his attention, hurtling towards him as a bullet cutting through the air, and he opened his arms to accept the full impact of his wife's body as she crashed against his; her eyes wild in a way he had never before witnessed, her voice calling out his name over and over, intermixed on occasion with their daughter's.

Rhythmically he stroked her hair with hands that still burned with inborn power and trembled with the shock he struggled to overcome. "Easy love," he murmured, forcing his mind to focus, and therefore to accept the terror, the anger, and the agonizing doubt that came with awareness, "we'll find her. We'll get her back." Like oil thrown on a cooking fire, the old warning tingle flared to life within his spine.

_Too little, too late._ He'd worried early on in his new life that a role off of the field would make him soft. It appeared now he had the answer to that concern.

It was after only a few moments of offering this comfort that the steady crunching of gravel at his back signaled someone's hurried approach and with that Wren disentangled herself from her husband's embrace; the feral look of fear and fury within her features almost composed in Ben's opinion. He for one wanted nothing more at that moment – his daughter's safe return notwithstanding – than to retrieve his pistol and rifle and begin shooting at anyone who piqued the wrong side of his temper.

"Your Majesties," the man who turned out to be the captain of the castle guard bobbed briskly, "we've searched everywhere, but I'm afraid there is nothing for it. Not so much as a broken branch or trampled bush to show us the way to the princess."

"Call in the bloody dogs. And get some men down to Industrial," Ben commanded with far greater civility than he presently felt, "report to the Mayor. If anything passed through her town she'll know it."

"Sir," the man spoke hesitantly, "whatever took your daughter may mean you harm as well."

With a scowl as dark and menacing as the depths of Shadelight, Ben cut short the captain's thought, his fist knotted in the man's uniform before Ben was ever aware he had snatched the officer up. "If you're about to suggest that the queen and I go into hiding, I suggest you sod off. Don't you so much as breath a hint that we should just sit back an' wait for someone else to find her. We clear?"

"Perfectly, sir." The captain saluted stiffly while making a noticeable effort to avoid laying eyes or arms upon the offending appendage at his chest. "If you'll excuse me, sir, I'll see to your orders now."

"Then get on with it already." The ranking officer spat, releasing the captain to return his attention to his wife and finding it near impossible to offer her further consolation. It seemed that at any given second the crushing desolation within his soul was replaced by murderous rage, before shifting to crippling doubt. He was no more stable than the Auroran sands during a dust storm, and likely as mercurial. If he attempted to comfort her further he'd likely foul the entire attempt.

Still, through it all one thought held true – Lark still lived. She was more valuable to her abductor alive, or else she would have been killed in her bed instead of taken. She was a weapon to be used against her parents. It was the only thing that made sense.

"I've only got one idea," Ben announced, "same as before. Theresa."

Wren's throat lurched, her head nodding as though it were being pulled by invisible strings. "Yes. She'd know. But this isn't about the safety of Albion, Ben. It's personal. She might not choose to cooperate."

Ben's fist rose threateningly at his side. "She'll cooperate. After treating us like toys, like pieces in a game she's played, she owes us. I mean to collect."

With their plan established, the couple chose to forgo the customary pre-outing trip to the Sanctuary, instead returning to their chambers long enough to don whatever clothing was convenient and retrieve whatever weapons they had on hand, which woefully did not include any gauntlets or blades.

Passing the doorway to Lark's rooms had been near to unbearable, and Wren had groaned audibly, her knees nearly buckling as she stopped and stood before the darkened nursery, her fist pressed tightly to her breast as though she hoped to physically expel the ache that lay within.

"She's alright," Ben assured her, pulling her from the door and placing her pistol into her hand. "They wouldn't have taken her if they didn't need her alive."

Plaintive blue eyes which glittered like shards of melting ice turned towards him. "But what if you're wrong?"

Of course there was no answer for her question; for the Hero General knew that there was nothing proving he wasn't – nothing beyond his own desperate need to believe that he was right, that the abductor could not afford to harm his daughter, who was only old enough to toddle about on chubby legs. Little Lark, who could call for 'Momma' and 'Dadda', and shake her golden head emphatically when she did not want to eat her mashed carrots; who had inherited her mother's pealing laughter and was far more liberal with displaying it than Wren. Who, at just over a year in age, already displayed a mischievous streak Ben had jokingly declared to be his mother's vengeance upon him from beyond.

If he began thinking of the old religions, where children were used as sacrifices… if he began to think dark thoughts that involved his daughter's death at the hands of a stranger…

"We need to hurry, love," Ben croaked, pulling at his wife's elbow gently, "Theresa will have the answers; she always does. We just need to get to Theresa."

XXXX

Despite their concerns at gaining entry to the spire, it appeared upon arrival in the skiff they had commandeered that the ancient seer had been expecting them, for the great gates barring the interior port from the sea were opened wide and unmoving. The gesture gave Ben a small measure of comfort. If Theresa knew they were coming she would know why, and that she invited them in indicated she was willing to speak with them. To what degree didn't matter; it was a starting point at least, and if he had to beg the old hag for her help he would.

One inside, the Heroes found that the interior bore no more light or warmth than their last visit; in fact to the best of Ben's knowledge absolutely nothing of the place had changed, beyond a thickening of the coat of dust that blanketed nearly every surface. In any other circumstance Ben would have launched into a quip about housekeeping and Theresa's ability to spell a broom to do her bidding, however his present agitation kept his mood sullen and his tongue silent.

As no greeting awaiting them just beyond the dock as had been the case during their last visit, the pair chose without discussion to venture further into the cavernous port, jogging up the stone path that lead from the dock to a mammoth doorway, flanked by two braziers Ben had once estimated to be large enough to serve as funeral pyres.

It was with this memory trailing absently through his mind, and at a dread-laden gasp from Wren, that Ben understood just how uncanny his musing had turned, for between the two smoking pits of flame, laying upon a dark stain still tinged in places with red, were the robes of a gypsy; a specific gypsy. With careful fingers Wren reached down and lifted the hood, finding the fabric slicing and stained crusted brown, but otherwise empty but for some bangles, rings and other baubles the old woman had worn in accompaniment. Turning to Ben, her eyes wide and incredulous, Wren shook her head.

"It makes no sense," she murmured, letting the fabric slip back to the bloodied stone floor, "none at all. She can't be dead, not Theresa. She can't be. There's no body. Who would kill a person, Theresa of all people, and take nothing but the body?"

"Maybe someone's trying to send a message." Ben's pessimism began to take the better of him, and with his hand pressed to the back of his neck he began to stalk around a small section of the walkway as he spoke. "I mean think about it, would we have known or believed she was dead if nothing had been left behind? This _is_ Theresa, after all. Bloody woman always set my nerves on edge what with how she knew things no one should. But what in blazes is capable of getting the drop on Theresa? And what the devil are we going to do now?"

He hadn't meant his rant to have the effect it had, but then again he could have expected no different in retrospect. Wretched pain twisted his wife's features, and her eyes glistened wetly in the dim firelight. With every moment they stood here, their questions unanswered, Lark grew further and further from their reach. Instantly he wished he could retract his careless words, his hand reaching out to take up Wren. "Look, I'm sorry, love. I didn't mean-"

"Oh isn't this just grand," a voice announced melodramatically beyond their backs and as one the pair of Heroes spun, weapons drawn as from the shadows the intruder emerged. "As if dismissing my every effort to assist in your attempts to safeguard your kingdom was not enough, you've now deprived me of the answers I seek to a personal problem. Most ungracious of you, Your Majesty."

"Reaver," Wren hissed, her thumb pulling back the hammer of Chickenbane, "this is _your_ doing!"

"Of that you are most assuredly mistaken, my lady," the man replied with a flourishing bow. "I have need of the seer's counsel, you see. A pity, really. She was quite the joy to converse with, once you gave up the notion of hearing any semblance of truth, that is. I do hope her propensity for leaving out vital information was not the reason you dispatched her?"

"We came seeking her help and found this." Wren responded with a wave to the crumpled garment at her feet, returning her pistol to the holster. "The blood is nearly dry; whoever was here, they've been gone perhaps a day."

"And just how is it you knew the old woman?" Ben added, less inclined to disarm himself in front of a man with a history of amoral doings on the best of days. "She wasn't exactly what you'd call the social type."

"Ah, Theresa and I had a history, once could say," the coquettish man strolled casually up to the stained mound of robes, peering down at the scene with an odd parody of a fondness that would better fit a father smiling down at his sleeping child instead of a man gazing down at an apparent murder scene. "Did you know that I am the very reason she was able to call this spire home?"

"I don't give a right damn about how you knew her." Ben growled. "Someone took our daughter, and I mean to get her back."

"I see," Reaver drawled, ticking his dissatisfaction through his teeth as his fingers drummed casually on the stock of his pistol, "and dear Theresa was the key to you locating the princess and her captor? How tragic."

Ben's glare leveled upon the industrialist with murder in its depths; Briar's Blaster lifting slightly in his grasp. "Mock us one more time. Just once…"

"I mean no mockery, My Lord General," Reaver replied, using Ben's full honorific in place of the Hero's preferred abbreviated title of 'general'. "Indeed I find the entire affair far more troubling that you know. For you see, I believe that the ill fortune that befell our mutual acquaintance, your daughter's abduction, and my recent brush with unpleasantness are all tied into one."

Briar's Blaster was cocked and aimed with an obscenity on his lips as Ben found his patience at an end until his wife intervened. "What are you saying?" She asked the pale man, placing a gentle but stilling hand upon her husband's forearm.

"Only that it appears Theresa had the unfortunate honor of being the most recent victim in what I believe to be a predetermined list of assassinations, with no less than three more to go. Tell me, Your Most Magnanimous Majesty, how many people are standing in attendance here at this moment?"

Though Ben was near spluttering with the fury of having precious time wasted with idiotic chatter, Wren seemingly was drawing some use from the impromptu meeting. There was less fear and bewilderment in her eyes and more calculation than Ben thought was necessary. "You think someone wants us dead?" She queried, shushing Ben once more when he attempted to protest their standing about. "Why?"

"For what we are, of course!" Reaver smiled as though what he proposed was an honor bestowed upon them. "Oh, do forgive me. I nearly forgot; you were never informed."

With that Wren's tolerance for the man's theatrics clearly waned dramatically, nearly matching that of her husband's, her fingers slipping from Ben's forearm fractionally. "Start making sense, Reaver, or so help me-"

The queen's threat died upon her tongue as the industrialist reached inside his fur trimmed jacket and produced a small round object no larger than a pocket watch, clasped to the interior of his jacket by a thin gold chain in much the same manner; it's design unmistakable even in the low light of the spire.

Ben exhaled softly. "It can't be…"

"I assure you, good sir, it is. And before you question further, it is mine, earned by virtue of my own talent and abilities."

"You're a _Hero_?" Wren breathed. "When? For how long now?"

"Ages, my dear. Ages! But let us not get caught up in the details of my compelling past. Let us focus instead on the future! And the future, I fear, is rather grim for all of us at present. You see, we are not alone. No, no, I don't mean here," Reaver scoffed when the pair before him began to study their surroundings intently, "I mean in the grand scheme of it all. We are not the only Heroes. There are others."

"What? But Theresa said-" With those words Reaver began to chuckle as though Wren were a child speaking nonsense.

"She said that you were the last Heroes in Albion, I assume? In this she was, true to form, neither lying nor truthful. I have been a Hero for a good many years, madam, yet I was not in Albion since the sortie against the darkness; I have been traveling abroad until quite recently you see. Make no mistake, however, there are others. One particular specimen is the reason we are gathered together today for this heartwarming little reunion."

At last Ben began to see some significance behind Reaver's prattle, and found his desire to be off momentarily dulled if not extinguished. "Meaning what exactly?" He growled and ignoring the amused gaze that was cast upon him in response.

"Meaning that at this moment there is a malevolent Hero prowling our noble lands who would very much like to be the last of our kind." Reaver qualified and continued with an expression of one who had just bitten into a piece of rotten meat. "Though I am a man of considerable skill and lethality, even I must admit when I am bested. And in combat against this predator I fear that even I may require some assistance."

"This foreigner, this other Hero," Ben pressed. "They have Lark?" It was almost too much to hope for, and the general found himself – for the first time in his life – grateful to Reaver for his presence and his counsel. Here, from the mouth of a man more cruel and underhanded than Ben thought any man had a right to be, the despondent father had found hope for his daughter's safety. That it came with the knowledge that his life and Wren's were in great peril meant nothing. They were fighters, but Lark was just a baby.

"Most assuredly." Reaver all but cooed. "While it would be a simple matter for them to defeat one Hero, two could give them cause for concern. In some lands when hunters go out in search of lethal game, the most effective method is to steal the young and draw the true quarry out into your waiting traps. I, however, while sympathetic to your plight, hold no such distress as to allow this underhanded method to thwart my performance in combat."

"So in terms of standing a chance, one Hero is dead. Two might make it out, though not without risk."

"And three would be more than our would-be executioner could bear!" Reaver finished with a wide flourish of his arms. "Don't you see? Together we can take down this ruffian and put an end to their pursuit of carnage."

"One condition, Reaver," Wren stepped forward, "if we join up with you it's for one reason and one reason only. You have to swear – under penalty of death – that you will make every effort to save our daughter – not just yourself."

A smile Reaver must have believed to be reassuring slicked across his features. "My dear woman, I would not have dreamed of joining your entourage without the safety of that darling child at the fore of my mind!"

Unimpressed, Wren hoisted Chickenbane, its barrel pointing an unbroken path to the industrialist's face and the hammer cocked back once more. "_Swear it_."

With one hand raise and the other over his heart Reaver's smile evaporated. "May I live a hundred more years and never hold a pistol if I act in any manner that would threaten your lovely Lark's safety."

With a skeptical side-glance Ben peered over at his wife. "We going to trust that?"

The lines surrounding Wren's mouth deepened, her lips pressing together in reproach as together she and her husband studied the industrialist. Whatever he had said about finding himself in trouble was clearly no falsity. His white suit, while normally pristine, was soiled and rumpled despite his best efforts at maintaining his appearance. His telltale walking stick was absent, and there was a strained quality to his features that his usual haughty mannerisms could not disguise. Something had occurred, undoubtedly; something of such great consequence that the tyrannical task master found himself requesting an allegiance with the queen who had publicly denounced him time and time again.

"We have to." Said queen admitted at last and Ben understood that she was right. Whatever Reaver knew, it was more information than they had. If they wanted to see their daughter again this man was their only chance. Reluctantly Ben swallowed his distrust, holstered his pistol and nodded.

"Splendid!" Reaver clasped his hands in delighted anticipation. "Shall we be off, then?"

XXXX

**I made a story AND a drawing to go with it!**

**Looking back, my last Fable 3 story had too much set-up in my opinion. But because my last story WAS the set-up for this one I can jump right into the get-up-and-go of this one! It feels sort of rushed, though, like I'm leaving out the set-up and key plot points. Mostly, I think, because I haven't written a true sequel to an earlier fanfic in years. (That and this one is not being written as a dialogue from Ben's POV so it feels a little odd.) Add that to the fact that I haven't written ANYTHING in about a year and yeah… I'm doubting my skills. :o( **

**I'd really appreciate some feedback to see what everyone thinks of this one. Thanks! **


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